


to be here with all of me

by DevilishKurumi



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishKurumi/pseuds/DevilishKurumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil gets a package at the station and immediately has to take it to Carlos for "experiments."  Spoiler alert: it involves Eldritch weed that makes you see and feel and do things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to be here with all of me

**Author's Note:**

> ok so this is my first wtnv fic, and my first oneshot completed in like 3 months so I HOPE IT'S OKAY
> 
> it's kind of smut but mostly it devolves into a weird character study on cecil, who is not nearly as innocent as everyone thinks he is.

            The package comes in through the studio, though it doesn't appear in Cecil's inbox until well after the weather.  It's a thinly stuffed manila envelope, the kind official documents would come in, if they didn't already come folded up under his pillow or scrawled across his walls in ancient runes after his shower, and there is no return address.

            "Listeners," Cecil says into the dim recording studio, somewhere near the microphone, "All I mean to say is that sometimes, things that _should_ rightly terrify you, will instead fill you with the sense of safety, of _promise_ , of a hope for a better, less horrific tomorrow.  The things that should be comforting will, one day, not be able to save you.  So learn to be afraid - that is, if you haven't already mastered the task.  Goodnight, Night Vale.  Goodnight."

              It's not the strongest ending but Cecil is distracted by the manila envelope that manifested itself in his inbox without him noticing.  It's not entirely uncommon, since plenty of reports and announcements from the Secret Police come to him that way, but it's not usually bulkier than a page or two.

            He opens the package as he stands, and what he finds inside at once reassures him and fills him with an unexpected dread.  It's a small box, the size of a pack of cigarettes; actually, it resembles a pack of cigarettes almost exactly, except that the cardboard is a perfect, complete black... or not black at all, but instead the combination of every color in existence.

            Or just black.  Cecil sometimes can't tell the difference, it's like eggshell and ivory to him most of the time.  But who _really_ can, actually?

            The contents rattle and roll as he shakes the box but he's pretty certain that it's nothing important; or at least, it's nothing important enough to stick around the station after curfew for.  The station manager tends to start doing awful, horrifying things behind the doors to their office, and Cecil's not really fond of sticking around and staring into the empty void of their shadows.  Not right now, at least.

            He takes the stairs two at a time without thinking about it, pulling off the cellophane wrapper from the box as he goes down towards the parking lot.  It shimmers, but isn't black itself, only shimmering and vaguely translucent in the dim stairwell light.

            Inside the box are five thick, seemingly hand-rolled cigarettes; the paper is silver, and the tobacco, or _whatever_ it is, is a soft, vibrating ultramarine veined with fibrous oranges and yellows.  It looks like it might be wet and sticky to the touch, but even as Cecil taps the end of the cigarette against his hand, it only feels warm and dry.  The warmth isn't that surprising, though, because it's _still_ blistering and it's nearly midnight, so everything is always kind of warm, but that's what you get for living in a desert.

            Cecil contemplates the cigarettes before calling Carlos, sliding into the driver's seat of his unassuming little car.  He starts by saying, "I'm calling for personal reasons," because Carlos likes to preface their conversations that way and Cecil finds it both a little charming and utterly meaningless, so he does it too.  On occasion.  Mostly when he feels like being coquettish, which is a word that should be used a lot more often, if we're being honest here.

            Carlos lives in his laboratory, a cheap bed in a small, converted break room, and he invites Cecil over before his coquettish little _personal reasons_ comment makes it past his teeth.  It's a definite step forward from their previous correspondences, which generally went, "Um," "Well, here's me," "Yeah," "So...," and "I'll call you later to make sure you weren't consumed by the gelatinous goo oozing its way out of every piece of mail with a 32-cent stamp."  Now, Cecil rarely has to ask before Carlos is inviting him over, or out, or (once or twice) asking to come over to Cecil's apartment, and it's definitely nice.  A lot nicer than the whole "um" stage.  Even if most of the time, they just sort of sit around while Carlos finishes experiments, the television blaring game shows that won't stop playing after ten o'clock.  Cecil has tried every trick he knows to stopping the continuous marathon of _Wheel of Fortune_ , but nothing's worked.  So, mostly, he just sits and provides support for the poor, put-upon Carlos, helping him get through one more night of _Jeopardy_ and _Deal or No Deal_.

            The laboratory is dark, as usual, but in a lived-in way, as though the residents are so comfortable there that they don't need light to get around.  He raps his knuckles against the door, the pack of ultramarine cigarettes shoved into his pocket as though he walks around with packs of otherworldly smokes tucked in there all the time.  It doesn't take Carlos more than a few seconds before he opens the door, and Cecil wants to congratulate him on his promptness, but he's begun noticing that the continuous stream of flattery could be making Carlos a little uncomfortable, so he's making an effort to control himself.

            Besides, he's practically lost for words at how gorgeous Carlos is whenever he sees him, so it's easy just to keep doing that instead of blurting everything out all at once.

            He waits until they're inside and out of sight from the street to say, "Hey," which is the most casual word he can muster right now.  It's really embarrassing how badly he wants to just vibrate in place whenever he's inside Carlos' place, even though he _knows_ he ought to just treat it like a normal situation.  They've been on _dates_ , after all.  Plural, even.  Freaking out over being treated like a welcome fixture in someone's life should stop right after the first one.

            Carlos is in the middle of filling him in on the previously mentioned "oozing mail" issue, and Cecil has to scramble to look as though he's been paying attention the whole time, and not having an internal monologue best saved for the airwaves.  He just can't help it.

            "...And I'm going to assume you didn't want to come over because you were excited about figuring out the cause of all this, right?"

            "Um, _yeah_ ," Cecil says, trying again to be casual.  He pulls the package of ultramarine cigarettes and waves them in Carlos's face.  "Look what I got!"

            He can't help but sound excited, given the way that Carlos is staring at the blacker-than-black package.  He gets this piercing look of _science_ on his face, like he can deconstruct something down to the molecular level just by staring at it, and Cecil... well.  There's something enticing about being taken apart that thoroughly.

            But, first thing's first.

            "What _are_ they?" Carlos asks as he opens the pack, and Cecil momentarily congratulates himself for stumping Carlos before realizing that, actually, he's just as stumped, so it's not much of a win.

            "No idea," he says, unable to stop from sounding proud despite the fact that he's got nothing to be proud of, "They were waiting for me at the end of the show.  Literally appeared at the end of the show, just... _there_ \- anyway."  He smiles, and he knows that Carlos is in parts fascinated, terrified and a little attracted to the way the jagged tips of his teeth show when he smiles.  It's all right there in Carlos's expression, because even after a year of living in Night Vale, he can't quite managed a decent poker face.  He tries, though, and it's an admirable, brilliant attempt every time.  "I thought my resident scientist would want to investigate with me."

            There's a moment where Cecil isn't actually sure if his Cheshire grin and offer of experimentation is actually going to work, because it didn't always work in the past, but being on plural dates seems to have given Carlos the idea that Cecil isn't one for trouble.  And it's true, mostly - Cecil _isn't_ one to cause trouble.  Unsanctioned trouble, at least.  So, instead of telling him that maybe trying to smoke cigarettes that only marginally look like cigarettes isn't the best idea, he just returns Cecil's grin and tilts his head towards the back, where his makeshift bedroom is.  It's the only place that looks more lived in than the lab itself, and it's the only place where smoking anything won't be a hazard to projects or safety precautions.  He almost suggests the roof, but honestly, staring into the void for any length of time is ill advised, and he doesn't want to be looking into _that_ in case this takes a turn for the psychedelic.

            The television is significantly dulled this far away from the lab, and Carlos leans against the door once he shuts it.  He does that a lot; mostly when he looks at Cecil like he's something he can't believe.  More than once, Cecil's tried to puzzle it out, but honestly, Carlos distracts him far too much for him to actually think about it.

            "So," Cecil says, drawing out the word as he looks around.  Carlos hasn't cleaned much since he was here last.  Not that he cares; it's just a thing to notice.

            "So," Carlos responds distantly, before blinking rapidly a few times and nodding.  "Oh, right, yeah - hold on."  He wanders over towards the cabinets, and Cecil doesn't ask before he drops into one of the moderately uncomfortable break room chairs set at the one table left in the room.  It makes for a pretty good studio apartment.

            "Have you?" Cecil asks, suddenly, remembering to add, "Figured out what the deal is with the mail?"

            "Oh."  Carlos rummages around a drawer for a moment, then shrugs.  "No, not really.  Not yet, at least.  It's probably something simple."

            "Like the stamps."

            "Right, like the stamps."  He finally finds the lighter he was looking for, slamming the drawer closed a little too hard as he turns around.  "I'm sure it's something simple."

            Cecil takes one of the cigarettes out of the package and brushes the pad of his thumb across the end, unable to resist.  Carlos stares at it as he sits, like it's another thing he can't quite believe, and when Cecil holds it out he takes it without hesitation.  "You don't know who sent it to you?" he asks.  Cecil just shrugs, folding his arms on the table as he watches Carlos look at the cigarette, turning it between his fingers and brushing his fingers across the sticky looking tobacco-and-or-other substitute inside.  "So you don't even know if we should have this within _arm's reach_ , do you?"

            "Nope," Cecil sighs, then quickly adds, "I mean, you know.  I'm sure it's fine, otherwise, why would someone send it to me?  Really, I think it's a promotional item.  I'm _sure_ it's fine.  Positive."

            "The more you say that, the less I believe you," Carlos mutters, but he makes no attempt to hide the smile working across his face.  "Do you promise to take me to the hospital if I start glowing or transforming or even just... change hair color or something?"

            "Of course," Cecil says, "If you'll promise to never do that for me, ever."

            Carlos offers him a wry smile before lifting the cigarette to his lips.  He's too cautious about it in Cecil's opinion, biting his lip and inhaling briefly before sighing, pressing the unfiltered butt to his mouth and lighting the other end.  Immediately, the ultramarine catches, sending up a brief strand of soft purple smoke, almost like the sky at sunset.  Carlos inhales and the coal glows bright, as though taking light from the rest of the room.

            "What's it taste like?" Cecil asks, because there's a moment when, as Carlos holds the cigarette out, he licks his lips.

            He exhales, shrugs, and says, "Pineapple?"  Then, "No... not.  Not really.  I don't know."

            Cecil rubs his chin before grabbing it out of Carlos's hand, taking a long drag that he promptly forgets to exhale.  It tastes citrusy and like fire, a bitter twinge of aloe and bright hints of cotton.  He continues to forget to exhale, too busy trying to figure out which fruit he's tasting, and it isn't until Carlos lays a hand on his arm that he remembers he needs to breathe.

            "You're right," he says, Carlos taking the cigarette from his hands, as though he needed it.  Purple smoke pours from his mouth and his nose as he says, "Not pineapple."

            "Right," Carlos says, sucking in more smoke.  His eyelids flutter as he breathes in, his chest rising oh-so-subtly under his shirt, and Cecil watches with almost obscene attention as his shoulders rise, then fall as he exhales.  "I can't place it."  He sounds hoarse and lazy and if Cecil didn't know better, he'd say Carlos is more than a little inebriated.  But, he figures that Carlos would need more than _that_ from _any_ increasingly-likely-to-be hallucinogenic substance.  He reaches out, takes the cigarette in one hand and lays the other against Carlos's cheek, rough with stubble he hasn't shaved away yet.

            "Don't worry about placing it," Cecil says, "It won't matter in the morning."

            "Is this more of your radio talk?"

            The grin that blooms slowly across Cecil's face is deviant.  "Don't you _like_ my radio talk, with my radio voice?" he asks, putting on the dire facade that he so often uses on the air.  Carlos shudders at it, and can't quite seem to stop, shaking with chills every few moments like he's stuck in a feedback loop.

            Cecil smokes, and the smoke drifts up to the ceiling with every exhale, creating a dully illuminant purple sheen across the entire ceiling.  The small, "ums," and "here's" that slip out of their mouths as they pass the cigarette back and forth have created black swirls in the air, drifting from their mouths and dripping along the walls like foamy soap.  It makes the room feel so very, very small.  Carlos keeps jolting there in his seat, and Cecil finally asks, "Are you cold?"

            "No," Carlos says, exhaling purple smoke, passing it back to Cecil.  "I just, I just want to _move_."  He stands, slowly but abruptly, and Cecil stares at him.  Inhales.  Nearly drops the cigarette as it burns his fingers - when had they smoked that much? - and stares at Carlos.  "Let's move.  Up."

            So they go to the roof.

            Cecil lies back against the dusty rooftop of the laboratory and Carlos lies down next to him.  They look up into the void, all inky black, swirling with purple and blue like ink and oil.

            "It's about to hit," Carlos says, distantly.  "Are you scared?"

            Cecil can feel it too, in the depths of his body, a great snake about to consume him.  "Are you?" he asks, and the words come out wrapped in purple smoke that had been clinging to his throat.

            Carlos rolls over and lies on top of Cecil and says, with his beautiful eyes confused and his perfect hair tousled in all the right ways, "I don't know yet."  And then, he inhales sharply, all the air going still between them, and he murmurs, "Yes," before pressing his forehead against Cecil's chest.  And then it's upon them, swallowing them whole and together.  There's purple smoke in the air and the void is slowly gaining vibrancy, saturation turned up until the purples and blues are almost blinding, the stars blazing pricks of white light, Carlos's hair only partially shielding Cecil's gaze - which is good, because this isn't for Carlos.  Carlos needs to be protected from this.

            "I'm not scared," Carlos says after an eternity of seconds, "I'm only overwhelmed."

            Cecil laughs, each hitch of his voice spewing multicolored clouds, and says, "Yeah."

            They lay there and Cecil stares at the void, glowing like a neon sign, his body going numb before Carlos's heat burns into him.  It's perfect.  Carlos kisses him all at once, presses his lips hot against Cecil's, desperately, and Cecil falls up into it with a delighted groan.  His hands grip Carlos's shoulders so that neither of them will fall away from each other, and Carlos runs one of his own hands up Cecil's side, feeling out the ribs, not hesitating at how he has just one more set than normal - not any more, at least - and it's absolutely _perfect_.

            He can still feel, distantly, the rolling beat of baseline from the music in the room below.  He can feel the tremors beyond it, in the crust beneath Night Vale, constantly churning beneath the city in a desperate fight to remove it from its skin.  Carlos is saying something, the words coming out of his mouth as a garbled mess of black sound, but he can hear his name in there, somewhere, and all he can think is that it's a blessing to hear Carlos say his name like that.  He says as much, the words billowing from his mouth like fog, Carlos staring at them as though he can see them too - and maybe he can.  Cecil doesn't know for sure.

            The words Carlos spoke have formed a thick cloud above them, black and blurry lined and blotting out the sky.  Carlos says, "Cecil," all caramel and husky, and he says it again as he rolls and shivers above him.  Cecil sees blackness drift by him and reaches out to touch it.  It feels like darkness should feel; smoky, full of a throbbing ache for something familiar, and he laughs and narrates all of this to Carlos as he shakes apart above him.

            "Cecil," Carlos says again.  And then, in green cursive that looks like toothpaste, he says, "I can see you."

            "I hope so," Cecil says, and it looks like honey but smells like warm plastic.  His body quivers at the combination.

            "I can see _what you are_."

            Carlos quakes in terror and Cecil stares at him, baring his teeth in a smile.  He can feel it, the way his jagged, pointed teeth are clacking together, a zipper-toothed grin; he can feel the way his smile is stretching his face and he knows his eyes must look so strange in the darkness looming between them.  Carlos looks more afraid than he has his entire time in Night Vale, but Cecil doesn't take offense.  He can't.  He'd expected this.

            "Then you should _close your eyes_ ," he says, because what he really is, what he _truly_ is, isn't for Carlos to see.  Isn't for anyone to see - just him, and his mirror, and his poor, awful, sad mother.

            Carlos squeezes his eyes tightly shut and moans Cecil's name, and he starts floating, light as a feather against Cecil's chest.  He laughs, and eventually Carlos laughs too, shaky and hysteric but, hopefully, happy.  "I want you to be happy," Cecil says, knowing in his heart that if Carlos were to ever be unhappy, he would most likely self-combust.  "I want you to be so _happy_ , Carlos."

            " _I am_ ," Carlos says without missing a beat.  "That's the worst of it, _I am_ happy."  He opens his eyes again and stares, blindly down, his eyes static white with the tiniest dots of black ink for pupils.  "I'm ruined," he says, but he doesn't sound beat up by it.  The words are monochromatic but glow against the thick inky black that's floating in the air like water.  They look like toothpaste.  Cecil reaches out, drags a finger through the _u_ and sticks it in his mouth, sucking on the lime and ash he can taste on the digit.  Carlos stares.

            "You can see it," he says, but maybe he meant to ask it, because the letters come out confused and jumbled.  "You can see it?" he tries again, and this time they spill from his mouth in smooth, curling cursive that glows indescribably against the dark.

            "I can _taste_ it," Cecil murmurs, lifting his hands to tangle in Carlos's shaggy, perfect hair.  He kisses Carlos and it tastes like more ash, more lime, and birthday cake.  The moan that slips between Carlos's perfect white teeth fills Cecil's mouth, slips down his throat and coils in his stomach, filling the whole of his being with the reverberating echoes of Carlos's pleasure.  He tugs harder, relishing in the gasp that gets and the way his hips tremble and rock down against Cecil's.  He can't stop shaking, but Cecil doesn't mind - he doesn't mind because it's nice to see Carlos losing his composure.  It happens so rarely that it's become a special treat, every once in a while, when Carlos stammers or hops from foot to foot in anticipation, or even when he just looks away from Cecil's unrelenting eye contact.  It's so very _special_.

            "Can you feel it," Cecil murmurs before exhaling into Carlos's open mouth, feeling the body above him roll and arch into him.  "You _can_ ," he adds, delighted, because Carlos is breathing against him now, heavy weight once again, his belt buckle digging a realistic, grounded weight into Cecil's stomach.  Carlos closes his eyes again, whispering something into Cecil's skin that doesn't have a scent or even a color.  He hopes Carlos isn't sobering up yet - this world is so much more electric, and he doesn't want to leave it yet.

            "You scare me," Carlos whispers, "This is scaring me."

            "Don't," Cecil replies, almost desperate, pressing kisses against his hair, "Don't be scared.  I'm right here."

            "Maybe," Carlos says, his throat tight, swallowing a few times before shaking his head slowly, rubbing his skin against Cecil's shirt.  Maybe he was going to say more, but he doesn't continue and Cecil isn't one to push him.  Not right now.

            The void above, glowing still, changes its colors almost imperceptibly, blues and purples turning to titanium and obsidian, the stars glimmering and yellow above.  The shadow of their words is dissipating slowly around them.  "Do you want to see it?" Cecil asks, and Carlos moans and presses his full weight down.  "Do you?" he repeats.  The words come out sluggish and frosted.

            "No," Carlos moans, "I don't want to see anything - just - distract me."  He writhes above Cecil and says again, more desperately, "I need you to distract me."

            It's a request that Cecil is only all too pleased to fulfill, digging his fingernails into Carlos's scalp and hooking one long leg over his thighs.  He doesn't bite Carlos's lip when he kisses him, aware of how his teeth could tear up Carlos's soft flesh, but he sucks on it, lets his tongue taste the chapped edge of skin, and Carlos writhes against him to let him know it's okay.  They haven't gotten as desperate as they are now, and this level of intimacy is one they're only just barely comfortable with.  Cecil, honestly, doesn't care.  He could care less how much or how little they touched, because just the thought that he gets to call Carlos _his_...  It's all he needs.

            He says all this aloud, filling the air around them with words dressed in atomic shades, carrying the smell of the desert's first rain as Carlos undoes their belts but nothing more, as nervous as he is desperate.  "Just to call you _mine_ ," he whispers, ignoring the violent outburst of colors surrounding them as he pulls Carlos to him, raises his chin so they can be eye to eye.  "Just that word, _mine_ , that's all I need.  I can shout that on rooftops and say it on the radio," and here he adopts his dire voice, his eyes feeling like static under their lids, "And I know you _like_ my radio voice.  To announce it, _my Carlos_ , my _beautiful_ Carlos, just as I can announce an oncoming storm - it's _everything_."

            Carlos's molecules shatter and his body feels like air in Cecil's hands, and then he returns to their plane of existence with a sob, coming in his pants, staring wide-eyed at Cecil as though he'd really, _finally_ come to see him the way he is, instead of glimpsing it only for a moment before hiding his eyes like any citizen of Night Vale should.  It isn't without its terror.  "God," he says, and Cecil laughs and _laughs_.

            "Yeah," he chuckles sarcastically, " _Sure_ ," and then Carlos is palming him through his slacks, looking maybe a little surprised that there isn't something more than he was expecting - Cecil hopes that's good.  From the way Carlos's eyes turn pink, then immediately black, pupils blown wide, he thinks it is.

            He loses himself to the feeling of Carlos's hand on him, letting him rut against his palm, trailing kisses against his jaw.  He hears the words they mean, clearly, as though they were written in the sky over Carlos himself, and when Carlos presses the heel of his palm against the base of his dick, Cecil comes with a shout and hears Carlos saying, distantly, "You're like an absence of light."

            There's a long moment where Cecil can't tell up from down, and the only things that orients him are the colors in the sky.  Carlos is kissing his jaw again, the words lost now that Cecil is starting to sober.  They lay like that for too long to remember, the neon and the obsidian and the titanium fading in the slowly lightening sky.  "Is it still there?" Carlos asks, no colors coming from him any more.

            "Yes," Cecil replies, quiet, stuck between tired and reverent.  "Do you want to see it?"

            Carlos moves in response, pressing his side against Cecil's as he lies down next to him.  Their hands find each other, fingers interlocking, and Carlos rubs his thumb across Cecil's knuckles as they murmur the names of colors to each other.  The air is clearing up, the void darkening - but not enough.  Cecil has the presence of mind to check his watch, which he then holds over for Carlos to see.

            " _Five_?" Carlos swears, raising his eyebrows in complete bafflement.  "That can't be right."

            "Time moves on," Cecil says, rolling onto his side, sliding his arm around Carlos's waist.  Neither makes an effort to move, and so they there for a while longer as the sun's gradual rise begins to soak up the faint swirling Van Gogh in the sky.  "Just because it doesn't work right, doesn't mean it doesn't work at all."

            "What?" Carlos asks.

            "Time," Cecil says, and then he pushes himself up to lean over his Carlos.  "That sure was something."

            "Neat," Carlos agrees, and then he laughs and kisses Cecil in a way that shows he remembers very little from the last five hours.  Cecil smiles into the kiss and thanks whoever he has to for that small blessing.

            "Should go inside before something catastrophic happens," Carlos says some more minutes later, "God only knows what the secret police will have to say about this."

            It's a possibility that what transpired was caught on camera, Cecil supposes, but he knows that more than likely, the secret police caught nothing.  Not that he thinks they're mostly useless, of course not.  He just thinks whatever doesn't count as a thought crime.  And doublespeak thinking, of course.

            But that's not important.

            What _is_ important, in this moment, is the sun rising slowly over the desert, bringing more heat with it but also more light - more light for Cecil to see Carlos in, and more places for Cecil's shadows to hide from sight.  He hopes Carlos can remember the lime and ash, the birthday cake and the technicolor words, but not as much as he hopes he can't remember any of the other stuff.

            "Do you want coffee?" Carlos asks, and Cecil lets him get up, pulls himself to his feet and shrugs.

            "Sure.  It isn't illegal for another forty minutes, anyway."

            "You're going to have to try and explain how you can stay on top of all these rules," he hears Carlos say from ahead of him, leading him down the steps to the laboratory itself.

            "I'm a journalist," he says, for all accounts perfectly cheerful, "It's what I _do_."

            Carlos makes them coffee and Cecil picks up the pack of cigarettes once again as he sits down.  The cigarette they had smoked hours ago is stubbed out on the tabletop, just under three-fourths smoked, and Cecil picks it up, examines its obsidian char for a moment, then flips the box open to replace it.

            He notices, then, that there's a card tucked into the back, a piece of folded black paper that barely sticks out from the blacker-than-black box itself.  He peels it out as Carlos struggles to get the coffee out as anything but brownish-green gunk, flips it open and reads it briefly before tucking it away again, along with the butt of the cigarette.

            He takes Carlos's instant, non-brewed and therefore non-sentient coffee with a grin and doesn't bring up the short note he'd found, written on black paper with white ink in big capital letters: _CAMEL OBSIDIAN IS NOT FOR EARTHLY CONSUMPTION. CAMEL OBSIDIAN IS FOR ANGELS ONLY._

            It's signed by the sheriff, which means only one thing - these poor cigarettes are yet another ploy by the city to capture the angels.  Or market to them.  Whichever.  As Cecil sips his coffee and watches Carlos try to come up with a way to invite him into the shower - really, _no_ poker face _what_ soever - he thinks that it's honestly unimportant information, and it'd do no good for Carlos, or _anyone_ , to know about.  After all, all he wants is for Carlos to be happy.  If that means more than a few casual informational blackouts - all the better.

            "Would you like-" Carlos starts.

            "Yes, definitely, a lot," Cecil replies.  Carlos tries not to look embarrassed as he pulls Cecil up - but that's okay, because they've seen each other at the atomic level, whether or not they both remember it.  Carlos can pretend to be whatever he wants, just like everyone else, because Cecil knows exactly what Carlos is.  And, one day, with enough time and patience (and liberal application of liquor), maybe Carlos will find out just what Cecil is, too.  ...And, well, _remember_ it.


End file.
